I dressed like a homeless man and walked into my own restaurant to see how my employees treated people who couldn’t afford a decent meal.
I expected some unfriendly attitudes and perhaps a few rude remarks, but instead I uncovered something so alarming that I eventually had to contact the police.
PART 1
My name is Alonzo Meza, and I’m fifty-two years old.
Twenty years ago, I worked long hours washing dishes at a greasy diner in Fresno, California, for six dollars an hour.
Today, I own Graciela’s, a restaurant named in honor of my late mother.
She was a waitress for thirty-eight years.
She carried plates up her arm like a deck of cards, she knew every regular’s order by heart, and she lived by one rule that she never put in writing, because she thought a rule worth keeping did not need a pen.
Nobody leaves hungry.
